RETRACING THE STEPS.
The armies of Grant and Sherman turned their backs on the South and took
up their line of march for Washington, where they had been ordered to
report for a general review and muster out. We passed through Richmond and
retraced our steps over much of the same ground that had been fought over
the previous year, and all along the route were reminders of the terrible
struggles between the two great armies.
Earthworks that had swarmed with soldiers were now deserted. Everywhere
there were bleaching bones of horses and men; grinning skulls, disabled
artillery caissons, rusty sabres, bayonets, gun-barrels, canteens,
haversacks, weather-stained clothing and mounds of earth that marked the
resting places of many whose army record was closed with the single word
“missing.”
We were a jolly lot, however, realizing that our battles, hardships and
marches were about over.
A COURTEOUS ENEMY.
One day on our return march, when the troops had halted for rest, my
comrade suggested that we make a reconnaissance and see if we could not
find a little something in the eating line to vary the monotony of coffee,
hardtack and “salt hoss.” Back from the roadside we espied a comfortable
looking house and we made a “bee line” for it.
In the doorway stood a woman who returned our salutation of “good
afternoon, madame,” with “Go right away from here, Yanks, you’ve killed my
boy, Tom, and I don’t want to ever look on a blue coat again.”
We expressed sympathy and assured her our mission was a peaceful and
honorable one, we wanted something to eat and had good money to pay for
it. At this point in the conversation a fine looking man came to the door.
He was dressed in a faded butternut colored uniform and on the collar of
his coat we noticed the insignia of a Confederate colonel. He gave us a
military salute and said: “Come right up here on the veranda, men,” and
turning to the woman said: “These soldiers are not responsible for our
Tom’s death; ’twas the fo’tunes of wah, and my deah wife, you must
remember that all ovah the nawth mothers are weeping for their boys that
are sleepin’ under Virginia sod. These are some of the 2d corps boys, that
divided their rations with the 2d corps C. S. A. at Appomattox. These are
some of Gen. Hancock’s men that treated me so chivalrously at
Gettysburg.”
“You see, boys,” he continued, “our Tom was a sergeant in my company when
we went into that fight, and was mortally wounded that day in the
wheatfield.
“When our line fell back I couldn’t go away and leave my poor boy with his
life fast ebbing out, so I jes’ stayed and holding his head on my knee
listened to his last message for his mother and then laid him away under
the sod, and of cose was yo’ah prisoner. But no southern bo’n man ever
performed a more knightly act than did one of yo’ah generals that night
when he sent me back to our lines under a flag of truce.
“We are comin’ out of this war poor, and if you’ll excuse the expression,
d--d poor, but as long as I’ve got a scrap I’ll share it with a man with a
red clover leaf on his cap.”
As the colonel told his story tears coursed their way down his bronzed
cheeks, and the two boys, whose emotional natures were not easily stirred
had great, big lumps in their throats. For the first time in many months
we sat down at a table to eat a meal. If there was scanty fare there was
abundance of genuine hospitality of a warmth that is so characteristic of
the southern people.
When we took our leave the colonel called black Joe and told him to “tote”
our luggage “down the pike,” and on the way we suggested to the darkey
that now he was free we presumed he would be leaving the old place and
perhaps enlist in some colored regiment and wear fine clothes with brass
buttons and other fixings. “No, suh, boss, spec I allus stay right yere. I
lak Massa Lincum soldier mens, and I’se much ’bleeged to ’em, but I lak my
ole massa an’ missus a heap bettah. An’ den when Marse Tom went to de
wah--Tom an’ I useter run roun’ bare-foot when we’s little--I promis him I
allus stay with his mammy an’ as Tom can nevah come back any mo’ I reckon
I’se boun’ to stay yere.”
At another house we met a sharp-tongue woman who said:
“Yo’uns could nevah have whipped Bob Lee if he’d had half as many men as
yo’uns. We’uns could outfight and outmarch you bluebellied Yanks every
time.”
She informed us that she had lost two sons by the war and that her husband
was then in a southern hospital laid up with his third wound, and her eyes
snapped as she said she wished she could have given a dozen boys to the
“cause.” We admired the grit of this Spartan like mother and regretted in
our hearts that the war had borne down with such crushing weight on the
gentle sex of the South.
THE BLOODY ANGLE AT SPOTTSYLVANIA.
One night our brigade went into camp near Spottsylvania court house, and
in the vicinity of the “bloody angle” where the hardest fighting of the
war occurred. Here 11 months before the 2d corps made a charge more
desperate than that of the “light brigade,” the percentage of killed being
more than double that in the battle made famous by Tennyson. Here the
rebel infantry were massed in double lines with the artillery supporting
them in redans. Hancock’s veterans charged them in open field and were
victorious, capturing about 4,000 prisoners, 20 pieces of artillery,
thousands of small arms, 30 stands of colors with Gens. Johnson and George
H. Stuart among the prisoners.
It was here that the celebrated tree was found that was completely severed
by bullets. Gen. Miles, who had been a brigade commander at the “angle”
and who was then our division general, caused the stump to be dug up and
conveyed to Washington where it was exhibited at the grand review and was
afterwards placed in the war department. The tree measured about 20 inches
through.
The armies reached Washington about the middle of May, and in most cases
the organizations were allowed to pitch tents on their old camping
grounds. It was almost like getting back home again. The only sad feature
was to think of the many who had been with us there before who had since
answered the last roll call.